the waking epiphanies

Filaments, mouths,
their acrylic encasements
will flight through ambergreyed avenues.
They leave fires, blurred smoke carriages
scattering, sun-borne.

-
 
I know
that roofs are for jumping.

-

When I first fell in love, the sky pretended to be paintbrush rinse-water.
I became like fresh Chinese calligraphy on white printing paper, laying on the dank bottom of the sink,
the rush of warm faucet water washing over my skin surface, displacing and soaking into every part of me.


(That is a lie. Love has never been like that.)

making lists

i.
they illuminated the water of short-stemmed violet orchids growing out of little rounded glasspots by the tinted window. i can only think of pastiches. it's too much. my mind is a mess.

ii.
a little black mark. i'm undecided on whether to portray it as cancer, a tick bite, or as some little careless puncture wound i caused myself while wasted. either way, i can't write about it anymore. it's done.

iii.
the apocalypse happened. it was less exciting than the ones of my dreams where there are flying spheres of energy, and flawed good|evil characters who are all inherently human and susceptible to loneliness and love. the world always goes on afterwards. i wonder if this means that not too far deep inside, it means i've got a romantic disposition towards life.

iv.
boom! destruction! i don't know which i am. who killed me if i am despair?

i am post-buddhism juxtaposed with desire; i need to sort out myself. (repetition on disorganization of self. this is not a good night for this.)

v.
shade cord tinkling against wine goblet in the wind

vi.
what is existence but thought? ouroboros. beginning touches the end. following the loop. also, buttsex, if not eating the self.

vii.
too many bullshit epiphanies.

viii.
mario. this is a whim, like doritos.

ix.
i had a girlfriend. she wasn't depressed or anything, but sometimes she would take safety pins, and push their tips against her back until her skin broke, and the tiniest bit of the metal went in. she would use a different safety pin for each little puncture. then she would wait until they started to heal, and would go shower. i watched her do this every time she had writer's block.

x.
goodbye and hello, as always.
(digging up zelazny and amber for clarity tonight)

For a moment,
I turned the faucet
and the water sang.
Two notes, a gurgling alto warming her chords.

Then, the flow of water aerating
down the lowly sink, down the steel holes.

Nobody loves me the way the water does.

Last night
the rain struck me
with swifts, half-liquid butterflies.
blinded, I walked onwards anyway,
and clung,
to its pebbling coldness.
then, I too, was sweet rain.
 
A splash.
It nearly kisses me,
but falls away.
I wash my face yet again.
It rinses my sweat, the oil,
but underneath, never pristine,
a dirt girl unearthed to porcelain;
I am yellow pale, a boyfaced zombie.

new york

moving crosstown cos i've got problems
and took disconnected trains
i told him on paper that i craved schulyer's raindrops
in chelsea, panging
for artistry of modern,
early twentieth century, american,
and i am drying
bottles of furikake in dark oak cases,
thin glass, the windows panes are chipping at the frame,

bracques' neighbor, 'beginning' spins,
they've moved the prescription from october, and a painting,
leaving tanguy's fogginess, i shake
a sob, it is a baby in the museum, i go
with my migraine, sneezing loudly, the rain
has caught me in my flimsy winter coat in may.